Page 68 of Close Knit

“I’ve studied the tapes,” I assure him, my voice steady but my heart racing. “He likes to fake, and he favors the right side of the box. Gustafsson, that means we’ve got to keep our communication line open today.”

“You got it!” Gustafsson says, giving me a thumbs-up.

We’ve been grinding through drills all week. Each one helps me with my assertiveness on the field. Little by little, it’s finding its way back.

Matos catches my attention and nods. He stayed after practice on Thursday to watch tapes with me, silently calling out notes on Sutton I hadn’t picked up on.

Coach continues his speech, breaking into tactics for the game.

When he’s done, I dive into my pregame ritual, wrapping each knuckle carefully—left hand first, then the right—before I’m ready for my gloves.

Around me, my teammates are lost in their own routines. Gustafsson mutters under his breath, clutching a picture of his family like a talisman. Kamara blasts the same track on repeat, the sound leaking out through his over-ear headphones. Our captain is engrossed in a tome that changes titles with each game—fromThe Renaissance: When Art Got RealtoThe Past Is a Foreign Country: They Do Things Differently There.

There’s an odd solace in these routines, watching each man absorbed in his rituals. A quiet rhythm of readiness. The sensation of belonging swells within me. Being around Daphne has made me realize how much I’ve missed feeling like part of a team.

Some of them chatter about next weekend’s team gathering at Matos’s house, and for the first time since starting this season, I wish they’d invite me. But I understand—after I said notoo many times, they’ve stopped asking.

But then Matos catches me staring and says, “Hastings, you in?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Damn it, anyone got some extra tape?” Tae-woo asks, wincing as he rubs his knee. His injury from the friendlies still lingers like a shadow.

“Here,” I say, tossing him a fresh roll from my locker.

“Thanks, man.” He catches it with a grateful smile. I hope all my effort pays off on the pitch today.

I return to my locker, running my thumb over the tiny flame on the cupcake Daphne made me. It’s the last thing I do before slipping on my gloves and smearing them with Vaseline.

“Guys, our neighbor finally came to a game!” Gustafsson exclaims, holding up his phone to show @wooly.duck’s Instagram story—Daphne’s selfie outside the stadium.

“I didn’t put her name down at the call box.” Mohamed nudges Gustafsson’s arm. “Did you?”

“No,” Gustafsson replies, confused.

“Huh?” Mohamed turns to Tae-woo, who merely shakes his head in response. Okafor shrugs.

They’re going to find out sooner or later.

“I did,” I say.

They all stare at me. You could hear a pin drop. I just admitted to inviting the girl I’m secretly having way-too-complicated feelings for to our football game. Will they see her as my weakness, one they can exploit? No, I can’t think like that. I’ve been at Lyndhurst for almost five months, and they haven’t fucked me over yet. If anything, despite their efforts, I’ve been…what does Daphne call me? A grumpy storm cloud to all of them.

A lone whistle sounds from the back, and that’s the extent of their shock. They’re all too scared of me to ask any more questions, which makes the silence even more awkward. Fantastic. Just what I needed—a roomful of grown men acting like I announced that I’m switching out my team colors mid-season.

“Lions, gather up!” Okafor shouts. The team huddles, arms draped over each other’s shoulders. Instead of keeping my hands to myself, I throw them over Gustafsson and Kamara’s shoulders. There’s a warmth in the huddle—a sense of belonging I’ve missed. “Who’s sending us out today?”

“Let me,” I offer for the first time this season before I can second-guess myself.

“All right, Hastings,” they cheer.

I clear my throat. “Lyndhurst Lions, hear our roar!” There’s more to the chant, but it’s entirely cheesy. Everyone looks around, expecting more. Instead, I just growl, “Let’s fucking win today.”

They burst into the signature lion roar, a rallying cry. My jaw loosens, and I join them. The sound grumbles from deep within my chest. Fuck, this is a great cure for pregame jitters. I should’ve been doing this all season.

Our huddle disperses, players whooping, slapping each other’s shoulders and butts, amping each other up. Nobody touches me, though, and I kind of wish they did.

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